Foolish Words & Calm Places
by CeeCeeSings
Summary: A Sherlolly experiment. Never written these characters before, but I have really enjoyed certain moments between the two on the show. I love writing about atypical relationships, and theirs certainly could categorized as one, if only because Sherlock Holmes is one of the parties to it! For now, it may just be a collection of moments...but stories often have lives of their own, no?
1. A Razor, A Shiny Knife

When he is here, my own words are my enemies. Traitors, more like, as they tumble in fits and starts from my lips, out of order and clumsy. Every one revealing the map of my heart in their rush to be out, and be found wanting, by him.

My foolish words, they crash though the air around me, destroying the tidiness that was once my life. They tumble to ground and scamper through my coolly beautiful morgue: my morgue, a haven of clean blue and white lights and smooth, grey, dead skin and glassy, forgiving eyes and cuts that no longer bleed and bruises that no longer ache.

I sometimes wonder if he enchants me for this very reason. The calm (_dull_) waters of my life were rocked essentially, irrevocably the day he stormed into my oasis. I nearly fell down, then and there, under his dispassionate gaze. My heart sped up as he spoke in that way he has, like a knife going into an apple skin, spiraling around and around, unraveling the ordinary into its basic parts, until the rest of us mere mortals can no longer keep up, but simply watch the shiny skin of his thoughts spin and spin into a beautiful coil of infinity.

For several years, I was held rapt in his spell. Or rather, the spell of disorder he created in my heart and mind and loins, every time he burst in to my orderly, antiseptic world. Every time. Always.

But then.

John Watson. Unassuming, kind, intelligent John Watson arrives along with him one day. The kind of man I _should_ try to love, whose words are never, ever, remotely like a knife in her heart. And who words do not hold me in thrall.

But John is fascinating in his own right: he is_ friends _with Sherlock Holmes. Actual affection exists between the two, not the brief, grudging bursts of respect I have seen him dole out to Greg Lestrade, and, even occasionally, to me.

True affection.

It is like proof that the moon actually _is_ made of green cheese, and I am determined, in my foolish heart, to taste a slice. Or even a nibble. A crumb will do.

The disorder of adoring him has made me daft. Barking.

Oh.

That Christmas party. Silver bows and crushed velvet dress and crushed expectations. My confidence being peeled back in a spiral. The gleaming knife of his words less glorious when applied to the tender skin of my ego. Every time. Always.

But then. He lifts his eyes from the small gift card bearing his name. Something. Something is there, that wasn't a moment ago. Understanding. A way in?

"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," he whispers, his voice raspy with shame. _Shame. _Sherlock Holmes was ashamed of flaying my heart alive.

So many words that cut, so few to heal. When will I learn?


	2. Initial Report

Once, I was mistress of my life. Such as it was.

I did not stutter, I did not stumble, I did not question how I should wear my hair or if a certain color lipstick might make up for my small mouth.

In that life, the one before I met him, home was Toby curled up on the wingback green-upholstered chair that smelt of my dad's pipe. Shelves full of medical reference texts peppered with brightly covered romance novels. Rushed soup packets at the kitchen counter, and every now and then, a roasted chicken dinner for friends on a Sunday afternoon, with lots of wine and laughter.

My pale blue and yellow bedroom housed my waking and sleeping dreams, with the occasional overnight guest. I was neither saint nor sinner, or rather, I was both. One paramour likened me to the perfect cream tea: hot and warm, strong and sweet, as needed.

And my work. My work, my world at St. Bart's.

So pristine and clean, before his arrival. The day he burst into my life, and knocked it all sideways. Four years ago.

I worked hard to maintain an efficient, calm profile at Bart's. I was young; I was female. I was going to have to prove myself. And that was fine. I knew I could.

Anyway. That day. The truth is, I was the one that came upon him, rather than the other way around. Before I took to nearly living at the lab, in the hopes he'd show up. Before I rolled over and gave up, to this man. To how this man made me feel.

That Thursday, the day everything changed for me, I swung into Bart's morgue, slightly late but sure that Mike, whom I was reliving, wouldn't be too put out. I was wrong.

Mike was _quite_ put out. But not with me.

As I pushed the frosted glass door inward, I could hear raised voices, but recognized only Mike's. The other was a deep, melodious rumble to Mike's increasingly high-pitched screeches.

The door swung open.

There stood three men, clustered at the head of corpse, two of whom I knew:

Mike, red-faced, sweating, angry.

Greg Lestrade, whom I knew and liked (despite his chronic attempts to take me for drinks; I don't mess with married men), appearing serene and amused in equal parts.

And. A stranger, with skin nearly the color of the corpse he towered over and hair that appeared to have been carved by Rodin. Not handsome, per se. But striking, in his long black coat.

He was speaking. He didn't even notice I had come in to the room. Greg raised his eyebrows in greeting, rolled his eyes.

"I will use small words so you understand more clearly: this woman did _not _die of natural causes –"

"I never suggested that she did!" Mike nearly shouted at the stranger. "She drank herself to death! Nothing natural about it! Look! Look at the petechiae on her cheeks, down her neck. She was only forty-three years old. Her liver was a mess. She spent most of her time in Africa, with her husband, who works for the Royal Navy, or god knows what, drinking lukewarm gin and tonics and riding elephants or zebras or some other-" Mike had just noticed me, and his face went slowly from magenta to pale pink.

"Ah, Dr. Hooper, perhaps you can explain to this _gentleman_," he spit out, "What we've discovered about Mrs. Thorton-Bowles."

"Dr. Hooper, a gentleman, I sincerely hope, of greater ability than your colleague –" the stranger spun gracefully to greet me. A retort was on my lips, something tart about not tolerating blatant sexism in the morgue.

Then. Those eyes. Blue. Icy. Taking in everything, all of it, all of _me_, in a glance. Taking away my words.

"Erm, yes, well," I stammered. Dammit. Who was this strange creature? I dragged my eyes reluctantly from his, focused on Mrs. T-B. Held my hand out wordlessly for the chart, which Mike slapped into my palm. It stung, but not as much as my ego at that moment. _Get it together, girl. _

I dropped my things to the ground, donned gloves. I could feel the stranger's cold gaze burrowing into me. It was like being naked.

I pressed my fingers into Mrs. T-B's face, looked down at her chart. Her liver was wrecked, Mike was right about that. But the petechiae on her face, they were simply too expansive to be cause merely by years of overdrinking. _Sorry, Mike_, I thought, glancing up at him. He read my expression, sagged, ripped his gloves off. Walked away, muttering to himself. Lestrade watched, but the stranger stared at me.

"What do you see, Dr. Molly Hooper?" He asked in that rumble of his, the one that always got me low in the gut. I didn't ask, even then, how he knew my given name. He just _did._

"Ah, well, I'll have to run some tests to confirm, but, ah…" I cleared my throat. _God, what was wrong with me?_ "It looks like she may have ingested atropine, which is –"

"Deadly nightshade, yes," he closed his eyes briefly. I could see them moving rapidly under the pale, bruised-looking lids. My mouth was dry. I stole a glance at Greg, who just shrugged.

"Lestrade, I hope you can afford two tickets to Africa," the stranger murmured, his eyes popping open.

"Bloody hell I can't!"

"Good, it's settled; I'll travel alone," he was already heading towards the door. "Dr. Hooper, if you could be so kind to text me the test results once you know for sure, I would be most grateful. Lestrade has my number." His words still hung in the air. He was gone.

"Who?" I choked out.

Lestrade laughed heartily over the now-almost-certainly-murdered woman on the slab between us.

"Oh, that? That's Sherlock Holmes."


	3. Real as Unicorns

And, so, there it was.

He upset the staid calm of my life with one look.

This might sound melodramatic. I understand, and I apologize. It does not make it less true, however. I became a teenager again, looking up at the whoosh of the door or the indistinct shadow of a tall silhouette through the frosted glass, my stomach plummeting in that lovely, breathless way that calls to mind the pinnacle of a Ferris Wheel or a stolen first kiss after the winter formal.

At first, all I needed was _him_. That's not even entirely accurate: all I needed was the _thought_ of him. The knowledge that such a person, such a magical creature, existed. It was like coming upon a real, live, unicorn strolling through Hampstead Heath.

From that first case, from that initial meeting over the unfortunate – and yes, very decidedly murdered – Mrs. Thorton-Bowles, he was my drug. I would take anything I could get. I was shameless. It all made me feel wonderful – a smile, an arched eyebrow, the rapid, thrumming drumbeat of his voice against the cold walls of the morgue, damn it. All of it. I wanted it all.

Embarrassing, really. He was my drug, and I was a complete addict. Anything for that brief high. Until my friends staged an intervention, that is.

"Molls, this is no good, this obsession with this weird bloke that skulks around St. Bart's," my mate, Sue, shaking her head over Sunday's roasted chicken. She sliced into dark meat with relish. She looked up at me, pointed her fork at my face. "You need to get laid. By someone who is not Sherlock Holmes." (Sorry, Sue grew up in America).

I nearly choked on my wine in my haste to defend myself. "It's not like that! He's just – I dunno – so bloody _brilliant – _it's not a sex thing," I shook my head. _Well, at least not entirely, _I amended silently, thinking of the delicious plummeting sensation he caused in my lower belly.

"Okay, then – do something about it," Miles piped up from the other side of me. He shoved his horn-rimmed glasses earnestly up his long nose. "Stop _simpering._"

"Right, okay. I will do. I'll ask him for coffee the next time he's in the morgue," I replied, assessing their reactions. I didn't have the guts to go unicorn hunting. But if the unicorn appeared before me…

At that moment, which was roughly two and a half years ago, I was struck by something: my life was getting smaller. There were only three of us joshing over this dinner, when it used to be nearly ten of us. Even the chicken was smaller. Where were they all? Off to other lives, lives of travelling, coupling, marriage and children. Sue, Miles and I, the last standing. The Three Musketeers, I suppose. It made me terribly sad, and I instinctively glanced over at the empty green chair in my living room. _Miss you bunches, Dad, _I thought, choking back tears. He has only been gone a year then, passing not long after that fateful day over Mrs. T-B's corpse.

I threw my shoulders back, stifled my tears. I refreshed my smile and aimed it at my friends. I would, as Miles admonished, stop simpering. And catch my blue-eyed unicorn.

ooooOOOOOoooo

He shows up about six weeks later. I sneak away to the bathroom, stare at my pale, pale face in the harsh fluorescent light. His alabaster skill glows; mine just diffuses sickly into my surroundings. I swipe on an emboldening coat of lipstick, smiled with grim determination, and walked back into my morgue. _My _morgue….

….where he's beating a corpse with a riding crop. Decidedly not normal. Even for him. I clear my throat, press my freshly painted lips together.

"So, bad day, was it?" _Idiot…_

"I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man's alibi depends on it. Text me." He tosses me a brief glance, distractedly looks away, his curls falling over his face.

And, oh. I can see that mind working, behind the smooth, high, cheeks and creased brow. All I want is to know the difference between those two textures, to read his face, his thoughts with my hands. I clear my throat, plunge onward.

"Listen, I was wondering, maybe later, when you're finished –" Those nine words, they take so much out of me. I am breathing hard, running to keep up with him, hold his attention for more than a moment.

"Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before," his eyes cold, distant. A reptile (not my unicorn) studying a quivering bunny. Studying me.

"I, er, I refreshed it a bit."

"Sorry, you were saying?"

"I was wondering if you would like to have coffee…" And it is out there. My heart, bared, in the cold white space between us.

He doesn't even pause. "Black, two sugars, I'll be upstairs". And he is gone.

I fall against one of the examining tables, spent. Shaking. I head mindlessly towards the break room. To make his coffee. I am still vibrating minutely as I pour, slopping some down the side of the mug. It looks like dirty tears. I sweeten the murky liquid, stirring. What was I thinking? Me, a mere mortal, attempting to take on a mythological creature?

Before I can stop myself, I press my (lipsticked) lips against the warm mug, knowing his mouth will replace mine momentarily. I sip, swallow.

Even with the sugars, it is bitter. So bitter.


End file.
